Ride like a motherfucker, gathering more and more of your compadres as you go. Everyone is starting to crawl out of the woodwork and you’re cruising the slopes with a massive and ever-increasing swarm of cackling lunatics, still drunk from the night before.
Skidding around like a pack of hyenas, heckling people from the chairlift (“Do it better!” / “Want some toast with all that butter, buddy?!”), mowing down punters and taking out small children, you suddenly spot a rival gang from the next valley. The race is on.